


if only i could protect your gentle heart (but i am the villain here)

by executeGhost (textbookMobster)



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Empath!Hecate, F/F, Hecate is just a flustered idiot in love, mentions of abuse, set in S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookMobster/pseuds/executeGhost
Summary: It’s so easy to reciprocate. If only her feelings are real.Or, Hecate is a disaster gay who knows how Pippa feels from the very beginning, but has a hard time processing how she feels because she's bad at emotions.





	if only i could protect your gentle heart (but i am the villain here)

The first time she catches Pippa looking, she’s struck by the intensity of Pippa’s emotions: desire and guilt warring underneath her smiling façade. Hecate has always associated Pippa with the sun. She’s bright and warm, and her very presence adds life to Hecate’s surroundings, the colours somehow muted and bland without her around. Underneath that heated gaze however, Hecate burns. 

She’s always been a little bit more aware of other people’s emotions. Even now she could feel the static-crackle of Agnes Moonshine’s worry rippling from across the room as she frantically does revision. Or the blue of Wisteria Nightingale, her ridiculous pining flowing and ebbing—as mercurial as the sea. 

Caught behind a stack of books, essay forgotten before her, Hecate stares back at Pippa. There's a strange and sudden distance between them, as if Pippa’s attraction—for what else could it be?—has somehow created boundary lines between them. 

It’s just—well, the idea that Pippa might like her, _want_ her, it's so foreign that it _puzzles_.

Hecate reaches for old habits, returns to herself and to the sound of her own inhale and exhale, assessing. Always assessing. 

And though her mind whirls with questions and educated guesses based on observation, she finds herself suddenly on unstable ground. 

Because it feels like poison somehow, these feelings that have invaded her consciousness. Desire and affection and yearning, an infection that’s somehow spreading across her chest. And _oh_ it aches, to want this strongly. To reach beyond the gap, despite the insurmountable distance. To _have_.

But Hecate is no prize. She is just a girl with too much power and _adequate_ control.

She stills the tide of emotions swelling from within and offers Pippa a bland smile. Carefully, quietly, she traces the boundary lines between them until they are all that remain.

* * *

Hecate Hardbroom has always been a little bit more aware of other people’s emotions. It’s the product of her magic: strong and inquisitive, a heavy weight on her shoulders that she must endure. In her youth, it was a nuisance. Now, however, alone against a cruel and unyielding world, it is a weapon. 

She senses Ursula Hallow's prickling disdain and oily possessiveness amidst the rabble and straightens her spine, bracing for impact. Weirdsister College has its fair share of the uninspired upper crust, and Ursula Hallow is nothing if not predictable in that regard. She knows, even before the younger girl has found her, that trouble is brewing.

"Professor Goldeneye would like to remind you that your term paper is due next week. Stragglers, do take warning. And as ever, my office hours are Tuesday and Thursday from eight to twelve." Ms. Bright grins, though Hecate senses only weariness from the portly teaching assistant. "Do come by and ask questions; relieve me of my boredom _please_." 

Hecate frowns, disapproves of the way Ms. Bright simpers, and collects her things. "Ms. Hallow," she says softly, feeling Ursula _hover_. "Did you need anything?"

"No, Hecate. But perhaps I can help you." Ursula falls in step with her as she heads for her next class. "I know you don't do parties, but the one the Winterbournes are hosting next week is _practically_ mandatory." Hecate feels the slither of her triumph and doesn't so much as twitch when Ursula adds, "I hear a certain Pentangle might be making an appearance as well."

"And how does that help me exactly?" Hecate asks, innocently enough. Ursula is fishing for something that much is evident. Blackmail, perhaps? Sabotage? Hecate turns inwards, examining herself. She's tutored Ursula before, having shared a few classes with her. What does she possess that Ursula could possibly want?

"Well, it's a high-profile party," says Ursula, backpedalling. "You would do well to rub elbows with the other academic elite. I thought, perhaps, you might find comfort in some familiar faces, that's all." Anticipation and anxiety bubble underneath Ursula's skin. 

"I must decline, Ms. Hallow. Exams are fast approaching. I simply do not have time for such frivolity." Anxiety overcomes anticipation, takes root, and from its strangling vines desperation blooms. "Not to mention," Hecate says carefully, "I promised Professor Rosethorn I would tend to her garden while she is away for a weekend conference."

She notes Ursula Hallow's sudden relief and tilts her head in goodbye. She's not surprised when, a week later, she catches one of Ursula's lackeys rifling among her things, muttering about old assignments and easy test scores. 

* * *

Years pass, and Hecate's weapon only grows sharper, finer, forged by constant self-reflection and continued observation. Few people like her still, but the people who do are precious allies to her. Ada is first and foremost. And though she is reluctant to trust—especially after Pippa—she's older now. Wiser. Has drawn boundary lines over and over until she's _sure_ where her feelings lie. 

But Mildred Hubble, kind and warm, unsettles that long-established balance. She is familiar in ways that make Hecate ache for a childhood friend she had long since abandoned. It shatters her calm—makes her act irresponsibly. And more alarmingly, it blinds her to many of Agatha's machinations. She bristles, even now, recalling Mildred’s latest mishap. She knows, at the back of her mind that perhaps, if she had not pushed Mildred to always take responsibility for her actions—because of course, _a witch must make things go her way_ —then Mildred might actually ask for help once in a while rather than fumble in the dark creating more harm than good. Because witches need to know their limits. And witches need to know that they can ask for _help_.

 _And that’s the problem, isn’t it?_ Hecate thinks bitterly, even as she confiscates Mildred’s Tabby, Transferring him away before Mildred could say another word. _We’ve encouraged a culture where girls like Mildred are too scared of their teachers to ask for help. They learn from their mistakes, true, but do they always learn the right lessons?_

She finds, she doesn’t like the truth in those thoughts. Nor how they remind her of Pippa, always questioning tradition.

She breathes, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, the cool surface of her pocket watch, the brush of its protective magic reassuring underneath her fingertips. In her mind she brings up old boundary lines and begins to trace them once more.

* * *

In her rush to fix Mildred’s shortcomings, she forgets to guard against Pippa’s arrival. 

The heat of Pippa's affection is warm against her skin, as achingly familiar as the touch of her magic. The haze that settles over her—the lingering taste of her favourite tea, the softness of a childhood blanket—drowns the senses, and exposes Hecate somehow. When Ethel Hallow, always with that distinct coil of arrogant disdain, unravels at the sight of a boy, Hecate feels her own heart tremble, mirroring Ethel's helpless frustration. 

There's nothing she can do beyond exchanging pleasantries, though with her mood so sour, she could hardly call their exchanges _pleasant_. Pippa's eyes on her sets her on edge, and she turns that volatile energy towards her scatterbrained pupil, finding little comfort in making Mildred squirm.

She catches Pippa in the hallway a few times, and finds fresh guilt underneath layers and layers of calm. She wonders what trouble Pippa is orchestrating now, but she's convinced herself not to care—not to grow too interested. _She's no cheat like Ursula Hallow,_ Hecate thinks, and leaves it at that, worry etching itself along the hollow of her chest. Over and over.

When she finds Pippa in her potions lab doing last minute practice with her students, the air is charged with a different kind of tension for once. Pride, sleek and beautiful, curls around Pippa's form and makes her look absolutely predatory as it roars in challenge. 

It takes a number of heartbeats for Hecate to realize that the strength of Pippa's smile is made all the more fierce by the unyielding trust that bleeds into the maelstrom of emotions in that room. Her confidence lies in the absolute faith that she has in her students, not in her own mastery of the Craft. There's something alluring about that display of confidence. Hecate wonders as she Transfers into the Great Hall, if this is what attraction feels like.

* * *

Trust was a rare thing for Hecate, growing up. Her parents never trusted her, not even with the simplest of tasks. When she entered boarding school, her stiff spine and piercing gaze made her immediately suspect among her peers. The Witches' Code, contradictory even then, approved of the raw chaotic power that was her magic even as it reviled her due to her lack of control. 

A witch is wild, uncontained, a force of nature. A witch makes things go her way.

But also. A witch must take responsibility, must never use her power for selfish reasons, must maintain control at all times.

Hard then, to trust a girl as contradictory as the Witches' Code. 

But Pippa Pentangle, bless her bleeding heart, trusted Hecate as easily as breathing air. She was too pretty by far, too kind, too full of love. If not for Hecate's unique gift she would have discarded Pippa long ago, wary of her sweet nature which seemed to know no limit. Pippa made her feel _real_ in a world where the Craft was paramount, and being sly and underhanded was simply the _witches' way_. 

She's questioned what it means to be a witch since then, wondered in her weaker moments if the Code which Ms. Broomhead had beaten into her—heavy tomes against shaking fingers, repeated mantras etched across her forearms, blood spilling onto pages of spidery text—if all that learning was for naught. 

She sees the smile playing on Pippa's lips, and inhales sharply. The scent of Pippa's trust smells like hot cocoa and cinnamon buns, and it strikes Hecate with sudden sharpness that Pippa's trust is not in her students this time, but in Mildred, of all people. 

Perhaps, Hecate's not the only contradictory one after all. Or perhaps Pippa is that much more predictable.

* * *

Hecate has long since associated her gift of empathy to potion-making. To derive intention from emotion, one must first sieve individual ingredients, examining the history behind them. Afterwards, comparisons are made between emerging patterns, and conclusions are drawn.

Pippa: guilt, yearning, and apprehension. But also: bubbling anger and insecurity, barely visible within the shimmering cauldron that was Pippa's magic. Hecate suppresses the shiver down her spine that Pippa's presence incites. Turns to old habits—to familiar boundary lines.

"I should probably tell you that I've offered Mildred a scholarship." Ah. The reason for Pippa's guilt. Only Pippa, wanting what's best for everyone, could feel so guilty for worrying over a stranger. For offering them sanctuary against bullies like Ethel Hallow. 

Hecate wonders if Mildred will accept. Hopes—

Well, no matter. Better to cut off whatever fledgling feelings she might have for her errant student. 

"You were my best friend, Hecate. And suddenly you stopped talking to me. Why?" The tremor in Pippa's voice twists Hecate's stomach in painful knots. 

"You were always the popular one; you didn't want me getting in your way," she says, unable to speak the truth. Not when it sounds like an accusation. _I couldn't possibly stay and hurt you. Not when you loved me so._

Because to _accuse_ Pippa of something that could never be considered criminal—not between them, not when Pippa loves and trusts so unconditionally—to Hecate, the act feels more sacrilegious than any violation of the Witches' Code.

So she settles for half-truths, and aches even more when Pippa, sweet darling Pippa, responds with, "I didn't care about those silly witches. You were the only one I wanted to be friends with." _You were the only one I ever loved._

Hecate's heart stutters, and for once even Pippa's feelings are muted against the rush of heat and the swell of affection in her chest. She's trembling all over when Pippa uses her old nickname— _I've missed you, Hiccup_ —and responds in kind: "I've missed you too, Pipsqueak." 

Pippa's arms around her feels like coming home.

* * *

Hecate's feelings are often _muted_ , faint against the too-bright, too-warm expanse that she has to endure every day. It's the thrum and constant pressure of hundreds of students bearing down on her—it drives her to distraction. There are days when she remembers very little, her attention careening at the slightest upset, worry bleeding into routine. She's hardly found the time to breathe. She's hardly found the time to reflect.

 _A witch is wild, uncontained, a force of nature._ And Hecate is at the epicentre of that force, both protector and pedagogue.

In some ways, reconnecting with Pippa has made things easier and harder than before. 

Pippa steadies Hecate, offers her pockets of peace through mirror-calls that Hecate treasures. Pippa makes her feel like time is moving forward again, like she’s able to live beyond old habits. She’s made living feel novel again: something new and exciting, but also incredibly frightening. 

Because to love Pippa is to allow herself to feel again, to open her senses to the world so that she can share that world with Pippa on her own terms. It would have been easy, to keep her senses dull, to simply redirect Pippa’s feelings back and make loving Pippa all about _loving Pippa_. 

But Hecate knows better than that; she’s seen too many relationships crumble because people were disengaged from each other, going through the motions merely out of necessity. 

And with Pippa, she wants to get it right this time around.

* * *

She doesn’t really get a chance to visit Pippa until after the school year is over and the kids are sent home. 

It's her first time visiting, and she is struck by how beautiful and familiar the school is despite its modern look. She gravitates towards one of the outer gardens, fingers itching to examine the Atropa belladonna growing nearby, feeling the brush of a protective ward as she steps closer. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Pippa says, emerging from a clearing. She’s wearing a sundress that makes Hecate falter, gaze drinking in Pippa’s bare shoulders, the curve of her neck, and her toned legs. 

“And you are as pink as ever, I see,” Hecate says, though her words lack bite. “Well met, Pippa.”

Pippa laughs and closes in, foregoing the usual greeting with a kiss on Hecate’s burning cheek. “And well met to you, Hiccup.” 

She isn’t used to this, to the touch of Pippa's magic mixing with her own, her fondness and elation alien but not unwelcome. It's the distance, she realizes. Until now, she's really only talked to Pippa through mirror-calls and the occasional letter. Distance has made her forget how nice it is to be around Pippa. And distance is exactly what she’s trying to overcome. So when she feels Pippa's hesitation, she reaches for her hand just as the blonde pulls away, matching Pippa's uncertainty with her own quiet determination. "Shall we?" she asks softly.

The smile she receives is made all the more lovely by the gratitude shining in Pippa's eyes. 

Hecate has never been good at expressing herself, has never really bothered with telling people how she feels about them. Solitude builds character, her father used to say. Hecate thinks it’s just made people harder for her to understand. 

She loves Pippa. She’s certain of this now—certain since she found herself stuck in a painting, what-ifs chasing themselves in self-defeating scenarios, regret spilling from her chest. 

She loves Pippa, loves her heart which has always been too big and too soft and too trusting, loves her smile, warm and reassuring, loves the way she lights up and finds beauty wherever she looks. Hecate regrets that she’s only ever acknowledged her feelings now, regrets the last thirty years when she could have done something, or at least reciprocated sooner. 

But it was necessary to experience that distance, to ascertain once and for all where the boundaries were and where their feelings intersected.

Still, she hesitates, unsure of how to gap that insurmountable distance between them. To _have_.

Because Hecate is no prize. Just a mean, old woman with too much power, and too little patience over things she doesn’t understand. 

Thirty years apart and she's still making the same excuses.

"There's something you should know," Hecate says haltingly, hovering by the entrance to Pippa's quarters. She looks menacing by the firelight, face set in a carefully blank expression, hands clenched tightly together, close to her heart. Pippa's anxiety stirs at the edges of her vision, a deep purpling bruise that amplifies Hecate's regret. 

"Well? Go on then," Pippa says, beckoning to the armchair opposite hers. "I'm all ears."

She stays where she is, unable to step forward lest she crumble before Pippa. "I have a gift—a curse, really—one that allows me to—" Hecate closes her eyes and keeps her breathing slow and steady, fighting the growing nausea building within her chest. "That is to say, I am very good at discerning other people's emotions. Especially yours."

The sudden white-hot anger that erupts from Pippa catches her by surprise. "You _knew_?"

In another life she might have fled, wrapping Pippa's hurt around her like a burial cloak so that she might put to rest her feelings once more. But she knows what it is like to face an eternity where she might never speak, might never fix the mistakes that she's made, might never see Pippa smile again. "Yes," she says, meeting Pippa's gaze, the brunt of her accusation like a dagger sinking into Hecate's flesh. "I've known since we were children."

"Is this why you left?" Pippa unbends to her full height and closes the distance between them. "Because I for one do not care for this charade of yours. If you are here to ridicule me, Hecate Hardbroom, you've done a thorough job of it."

Hecate inhales sharply and pins Pippa with her most defiant look. "Do you truly think that I would stoop this low, Pippa?"

"Why else would you keep this from me?" she demands.

"Because I was a _child_ , Pippa, a child coming into her powers for the first time. Surely as an educator you understand that?" Hecate snaps her mouth shut, knows instantly that she's said the wrong things, _again_ , and adds, "I had to make sure, Pippa. You are . . . important to me. It would have been easy to just give you what you wanted, but I didn't want to hurt you."

"Losing you _hurt_ me. A simple rejection would have been easier for the both of us." Pippa turns away, her back to Hecate, resignation and grief curving the length of her spine. Hecate wants so desperately to kiss her, to put her mind at ease. But a kiss isn't what Pippa needs.

"Perhaps." Hecate reaches for her, gently pulling Pippa into her arms. "But rejection would mean that I didn't want you."

Pippa laughs into her chest. "Isn't that what this conversation is about? You rejecting me?"

The words deal a sharp blow despite Hecate's foresight. Her breath rattles in her chest, and her heart pounds loudly in her ears, the weight of Pippa's hurt settling on her. _Stay the course,_ she thinks firmly, pressing down the instinct to run. _Surely Pippa is worth more than your half-hearted attempt at honesty._

And _she is_. Because Pippa is her sun, her future, her home.

Hecate brings Pippa at an arm's length, pulling a handkerchief from thin air. "Goodness no." She wipes the tears off with an air of reverence and gives Pippa a wobbly smile. "But then again, I was never very good at confessing to people. If I had known that it would get this"—she waves a hand vaguely—" _messy_ , perhaps I would have consulted a book first or Goddess forbid, ask Ada for advice."

"You're _confessing to me_?" 

It's a foggy haze, all the emotions mixing in the air, tugging at Hecate's senses. "Well, yes. Because I _do_ love you, Pippa. And I'm not going to pretend that this part of me doesn't exist for the sake of convenience. I love you, and I'm sorry that it's taken me this long to realize that."

"So it took you thirty years?"

Hecate huffs, embarrassed. "Like I said, perhaps I should have consulted a book sooner."

"Or Ada," Pippa reminds her, wearing a foolish grin that Hecate finds frustratingly infectious. 

She feels the question, even before it's fully formed in Pippa's mind, equal parts desire and anticipation sending a thrill down her spine. "May I kiss you," Hecate asks for her.

"For someone who is so intimately aware of my feelings, do you really have to ask?" Pippa teases. "Yes, of course you may."

"It's only polite after all." Hecate says and presses short, chaste kisses that leave her weak at the knees. "I wouldn't want to be presumptuous."

Pippa cups her neck and drags Hecate’s hot mouth against hers, kissing her more insistently, pressing into her until she's backed the taller woman against the wall, quivering underneath her touch. 

This is a new and fragile thing between, beautiful but terrifying in a way that makes Hecate pause when they pull apart, trembling as the last of her adrenaline ebbs away. 

“Having second thoughts?” Pippa asks, and for a moment, Hecate can’t help but wonder if Pippa possesses the gift too. But she’s met empaths before and their emotions have always been closed off from her. 

“Just scared,” she admits, tucking a loose strand behind Pippa’s ear. “I am not fond of change. Of new things.”

“Ah.” Pippa rests her head on Hecate’s chest, putting her arms loosely around her. “I guess you’ll just have to get used to this. To me. To us.”

Something settles inside Hecate's chest: contentment like a small bird returning home, ready to rebuild. "I think," she says, the caution of her youth giving way to the hope that's now nestled in her heart, "I'd like that."

"Good. Because I'm not letting you go this time."

"I don't doubt it," Hecate says, and finds that she means it.

Finally, _finally_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly new to the fandom so I'd love it if you drop by my [tumblr](https://executeghost.tumblr.com/) and send me prompts or headcanons. I don't bite. c:


End file.
